Coming Home
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: Post Day Six. Karen returns home after firing Bill.


_***Author's Note: Set immediately after Day Six. There are some slight references to Karen's past, more fully explored in the short story "Promises", although both of these can be stand-alones.***_

* * *

He is not waiting for her at the airport.

She did not expect him to be, yet she still feels slight murmur of sadness in her chest (because, truthfully, deep down a little hopeful voice had whispered that he might be there, he might be there to show her that he forgives her, that he still loves her, that all will be well).

She tries not to read so much into it, tries and fails miserably. So she sits in the back of the humid, sweaty cab, looking down at her hands, absentmindedly picking at her cuticles as her mind loops in tighter and tighter circles of fear and apprehension, spiraling downward into a scenario that always ends without Bill, without his love or his forgiveness, without reason or purpose or light. Part of her (the part that knows she is reading too much into this) tries to stamp down the anxiety, but that part of her is too small when compared to the rest of her mind, which fills with unnamable dread.

She can't lose him. Well, technically, she can (and maybe she has already—god forbid, the thought itself stops her heart) but she doesn't _want_ to lose him. There are few things of which she is truly certain, but she knows beyond all shadow of doubt that she loves this man, loves him with a love that hurts in his absence, and she never wants to know what it feels like to be permanently removed from him. She has lost her job, ruined her career (the thing for which she has sacrificed so much over the past two decades), and yet, she is surprised to learn that such a loss holds no weight. As long as she still has her husband, all other things are bearable. It is strange and slightly frightening, knowing that she truly feels this way about Bill and fearing that perhaps he no longer feels that way about her.

She thinks maybe she felt that way about her first husband, in the beginning, but they had never faced the kinds of things that she and Bill have survived. It was never an equal partnership between her and her first course, that was largely due to the fact that when she met him, she was a wide-eyed twenty-two year old grad student and he was her professor, more than twice her age. She'd been in utter awe of him, and he'd been entranced by her youth and vitality and indomitable faith in the American system. Despite their mutual adoration and devotion, they had been on two different cycles—he was the moon and she was the shadow of the Earth. When he had waxed full, she had not even begun her life, and as her life and career began to broaden, he began to wane, slipping away until only she remained.

She tries not to think of that, of how her first marriage ended, of how she was already caught up in Bill Buchanan's web long before, of how she didn't look back as she launched herself into his arms, jumping so quickly from first to second husband. Now she wonders if the jump was too hasty, but she also knows that she had no other choice. She is and has always been ridiculously, hopelessly in love with Bill, from the first zing that she felt when her eyes met his that fateful day in CTU. It had settled into the valley of her hips with surprising warmth, and she had immediately chalked it up to lust, but the feeling must have quietly grown outwards and upwards, silently slipping its way up her ribcage and wrapping around her heart while she wasn't looking, because it didn't take long for her to decide that it was something deeper and much more dangerous than mere desire.

By the time the taxi drops her off in front of the house (once his house, now their house), her stomach has tied itself into seventy different knots—she gives an odd sigh of relief at the sight of his car in the driveway and the house devoid of light (so he's already in bed, that's good, she's not sure that she's ready to face him, to face whatever may come, not yet, not after hours spent jetting across the country).

She unlocks the door, thinking of the first time that she ever walked into this house—it had been a quiet night, their third meeting but their first real date, and she'd sat in the kitchen drinking wine while Bill cooked for her, shy smiles and darting eyes and held tongues and the air so heavy with so many unspoken emotions that it was almost hard to breathe. She thinks that her heart was left behind on that night—if she had to pinpoint a location, she'd say that she left it on the piano bench, the moment when she sat next to Bill as he ran his fingers across the keys, the moment he looked up, looked into her eyes, and pierced her with a single gaze. She knows that since then, no matter where she's gone, her heart has stayed in this house, rambling alongside the man who inhabits it, like a happy, trusting puppy. But now, her heart doesn't just stay in this house—it follows him to work, down the street, to the post office and the coffee shop and the book store and the place where he buys his guitar strings ( _Billy had a little lamb, little lamb..._ ). It had lain trembling at his feet just a few short hours ago, whimpering at his angry tone, silently begging him not to punish this poor little heart for the actions of its logical brain. And right now, it is curled up by his pillow, praying to every deity in heaven and hell that when he wakes in the morning, he will take this heart back into his hands and quietly forgive it.

Karen simply stands in the big living room for a moment, her eyes staring up at the second floor landing. More than anything, she wants to climb the stairs, to slip under the covers and simply be near him again, but she doesn't want to wake him, doesn't want to disturb him (because if he wakes up, then he will want to talk about everything right now, and they're both too tired for that). He deserves a good night's sleep, after the hell that she has put him through today, and she won't take that away from him, just to satisfy her own selfish desires.

With a small sigh, she finally lets go of the handle on her rolling suitcase, setting her purse and laptop bag into the large winged chair (once hers, now theirs, brought over from her house, which she sold when she married him, because this place had so many warmer memories). She debates taking a shower, decides against it because her body is staging a mutiny and there's no way that she can remain standing and awake for much longer.

The next and most important topic of mental debate is where to sleep.

She wants to sleep in her own bed, in _their_ bed, with him, but she thinks that is not a wise decision. There is a guest bedroom in which she could sleep, but it's upstairs and that's too close to him (she can't just lie there, knowing he's right across the hall, hearing him mumble and roll over in his sleep, not without crying at how much she has missed those little annoyances, how much she still misses them, how afraid she is that those things will be forever taken from her), and there's something different between sleeping on the couch and sleeping in a different bed entirely. It's a chasm that she doesn't want to cross, a weird hang-up that doesn't even make sense to her, but she listens to it anyways.

She glances over at the huge leather couch, and she surprises herself with the reaction that simple piece of furniture inspires—a sudden, visceral tidal wave of longing.

She misses the softness of his belly and the strength of his back, the feel of his hips between her thighs, the steady pulse of his heart beat against her cheek, the seductively domestic way that he rolls over in the middle of the night, his knee slipping between hers, the warmth of his thigh encased in the warmth of her thighs. She misses the comfort of how they fall asleep together, back-to-back, fitting like a jigsaw puzzle as he curls in slightly and she arches out, legs splayed across the bed, taking up as much space as possible. He always jokes that she does this because she feels the need to make up for her smaller body, and he often hums "Bigger than My Body" to her, which always makes her laugh, because she finds it hard to believe that he would be the type to listen to John Mayer (though he is, and she knows this—he quietly hums these songs to her as they move about the kitchen, making late-night suppers or much-too-early breakfasts, or sings them, when they have both had too much wine and he grabs her and dances her around the living room, laughing and loving him even more, or sometimes just quietly repeats lines as he makes love to her, with a worshipful whispering that makes her weak in the knees even though she's already flat on her back).

She misses laughing with him, the way he sometimes stops her laughter with his own smiling mouth, the easy way his tongue always finds hers, the strange smoothness that his hands have always had around her body, the equally strange way that she's never felt awkward or fumbling with him, the way her own hands have always seemed at home in the open fields of his skin, the way that even when it isn't earth-shatteringly perfect between them, it still feels right and matched. She misses feeling and knowing that she belongs with him and to him, just as he does to her.

More than anything, she misses the certainty of knowing that they will continue, that they will thrive, that warmth deep in her chest like some delicious secret, that smugness at knowing _we are unbreakable_.

That familiar ache starts radiating in her temples—she always gets a headache when she cries, and it's always so much more acute when she's tired. She has gone too many days without enough sleep, has survived too many firestorms without a chance to catch her breath, and she shouldn't think about these things when she's like this. She knows that. Still, it doesn't stop the hot tears that build in the corners of her eyes.

With a curt shake of her head, Karen Hayes forces herself to return to the present moment—no bemoaning what has been, no dreading what will be, simply focusing on the immediate situation. She slips out of her pants suit, leaving it in an unceremonious heap on the floor, taking off her earrings and necklace (but never her wedding ring, never) before slipping the stockings off her legs as well. She grabs the blanket from other end of the couch and curls up under it, surprising herself with how easily sleep begins to overtake her. Her bone practically melt into the soft leather cushions as she releases the breath that she's been unconsciously holding—she knew that she was tired, but she didn't honestly think it would be so easy to drift off, considering all the emotional turmoil that has been boiling in her brain.

Tomorrow morning, if she wakes before he does, she will slip into bed with him. She will be quiet and apologetic, she will not try to defend herself. She can only hope that he understands. This is her last thought before she tumbles into sleep.

* * *

He feels his body slipping back into the waking world, and this confuses him. He is quiet for a moment, simply listening. Then he hears the light sounds from downstairs.

She's home. That can't be right. He glances at the clock. No. She had said that she would be there by 2am. It's barely after 11pm. He'd gone to bed early, just so that he could wake up and get to the airport in time.

 _Time_. Of course. Karen is notoriously horrible about remembering the time zone changes. She arrived 2am _East_ Coast Time. He smiles slightly at this odd little quirk of his wife's. One of the most powerful women in the nation, and she still can't remember time zones.

He quietly waits, his ears attuned for the slightest sound, for any hint of what she's doing or how she's feeling—he waits for the sound of her feet on the stairs, waits for the mattress to dip under her weight as she slips into bed next to him, waits for her to finally return to his side.

He hears a slight shuffling, bags being set down, then silence. After a few minutes, he suddenly realizes that she is not coming upstairs. This realization turns his stomach to ice and his heartbeat slows down, as if it's suddenly too heavy with fear and sadness.

In all the fights that they've had, not a single one has ever kept them from sharing the same bed. Hell, it's hardly even kept them from having sex ( _this discussion isn't over—just merely tabled for later_ , she would say, and he'd always laugh, no matter how angry he'd been before, because her bulldog persistence had always been part of her charm). Some past disagreements had even been quietly settled in rational, peaceful tones as they stared up at their bedroom ceiling, recovering from a round of mattress mambo, too physically drained to hold any more anger or stubbornness. Some had been laid to rest before bedtime, with the agreement to pick up the discussion again over breakfast—and when they'd fallen asleep, it hadn't been with a sense of physical distance, because their bodies always found each other, even in slumber (there had been something comforting, knowing that even if they went to bed in disagreement, when they awoke the next morning, their bodies would still be in accord, still in their usual positions, and she would still roll over and nestle her head against his shoulder, and they would both know that whatever they were discussing that morning wasn't bigger than what was between them always).

So what does this mean? What line has been crossed that would keep his wife from sharing their bed again, even in the most innocent of ways?

He knows. The knowing settles into his bones with a chilling fear.

It's his fault. He should have said so, hours ago, before she even got on the plane to come home. But he couldn't find the right words, so he'd told himself that he was going to _show_ her—as soon as she got off the plane, he would take her into his arms, kiss the top of her head, and keep holding on to her until all the pieces he'd broken molded back together. There would be no hesitation, no anger on his part, and no doubt of his love on hers.

Except she mixed up the time changes and he missed her arrival and now here they are, both feeling awkward in their own home.

He doesn't want this. He never wanted this.

He stares up at the ceiling, trying to mentally piece together some kind of apology, something to give her, to prove to her that he understands, that he understood, even then, even when he was too angry to admit it.

But again, the words don't come. _I'm sorry_ isn't enough, it's like a fix-all band-aid being smacked on an open would, and yet that's all that he can think of.

 _I'm sorry I doubted you, I'm sorry that I made a horrible situation even worse for you, I'm sorry that I threw it back in your face, that I made you feel so unwelcome in your own home that you thought you couldn't come up here, to be with me, where you belong._

It's the last apology that needs to be said the most, in his book. Yes, this house was his before their marriage, but since then, it's become hers as well—her furniture and her books and her clothes and her coffee cups fill the spaces, with the rug that they bought together and the ridiculous paintings they made at that painting-with-wine fundraiser, and even the toaster oven that they put way too much time and research and debate into choosing. But it's more than just the house—it's the _everything else_ this house contains, their relationship, their shelter, their place of being. He should have never allowed a second's worth of doubt over whether she belonged anywhere else in the world except beside him.

The perfect words are still elusive, and Bill Buchanan realizes that perhaps such things don't exist.

So he simply goes to her.

By the time he pads down the stairs, he finds that his wife is already asleep.

Her left leg is dangling hap-hazardously over the edge of the couch, which normally would be deep enough to fit two people, but of course, she always takes up every inch of space possible. He can't stop the smile that slips over his face at his wife's furniture-based Napoleon complex.

He keeps as quiet as possible, not sure that he wants to disturb her—lord knows, she's needed a decent night's sleep for weeks, and today's events haven't helped in that department.

He crouches down next to her, taking a moment to simply observe her face (it's so drawn and pale, with so many more lines than the last time he saw her, as if she has aged a decade in a matter of weeks). He brushes away a lock of hair that obstructs his view, then he leans forward, lightly kissing the arch above her brow, to which she shifts in response, giving a low hum—and it is that small noise that reminds him of how much he has missed her, has missed all the noise and light and laughter that she brings into his static little home (the way she hums completely undecipherable melodies as she moves barefoot around the kitchen, the way she can't even make a pot of coffee without turning it into a symphony of clanging and banging, the way he can always tell exactly where she is in the house because she's always moving, always making some kind of noise, the way she talks to the neighbor's dog in deep thoughtful tones, as if he can understand, as if he truly cares about the state of _Medecins sans frontiers_ in Morocco as she reads him the Newsweek article aloud on the back patio, the way she purrs when she rolls over and puts her chin on his chest in the early morning, green eyes sleepy and happy as she simply stares into his face, the way she knows exactly which noises to make that will turn him into a puddle of need and want—sometimes, when she is being terribly wicked, she makes these little noises in casual conversation, when they are at a dinner party or at the jazz club with friends, as if she has no clue what it does to him, what it makes him want to do to her).

Even right now, when she is literally right in front of him, he misses her. He misses her, because he fears that everything they were before is now gone (why else would she stay down here, instead of coming upstairs to be with him?).

He knows that they have crossed a new bridge in the past twenty-four hours, and he isn't sure exactly where they are now—it's new territory, scary territory, a land of uncertain steps and hesitant words, fearful gestures and timid hopes, and he isn't sure how this will change things, but he knows that it will change things somehow, in some way.

He was angry, earlier. He isn't anymore. Briefly, he was angry at her—though deep down, he knew that it wasn't her decision, it wasn't a situation that she created, and part of him knows that if she had truly been given a choice, she would have thrown herself under the bus, if doing so wouldn't have caused a stain on the presidency, if the other powers-that-be would have let her. And later on, she fell on her own sword, she jeopardized everything to simply do the right thing (that is the part of her with which he first fell in love, the part that is almost _noble_ , the part that _must_ do the right thing, regardless of self-detriment or repercussions).

He has never met another person who has such a clear-cut sense of justice, and it is this thought that makes him fall in love with Karen Hayes all over again—she is like some knight from a fairy tale, a virtuous Galahad who sees her duty to her country as her life's ultimate achievement, and she doesn't blink twice at taking the hard road, so long as it is the path of _right_ and _fair_ and _good_. Which is why he knows that she has spent so many hours agonizing over her decision today, because the path wasn't so clear-cut, because she didn't have the reassurance of knowing that she'd made the right choice, and why he knows that she will continue to turn this question over and over in her mind, pricking her own conscience, torturing herself for all the things she did, for all the things she didn't do.

It is in that moment that he truly and deeply forgives her (though he knows that it will take much more for her to forgive herself). Yes, there is still much to discuss, much to sort out, but he thinks that all can be overcome, because he has enough love and forgiveness for them both, at least until she can move on as well.

He has never loved anyone the way he loves her—completely, without hesitation or stipulation or condition of any form. Ever since he first admitted to loving this woman (quietly to himself—it was many weeks before he dared to say so aloud, to her), he has known that it was this whole, this deep and undemanding, and yet, he knows that it has never been fully proven until today. He also knows that if he can forgive her on today of all days, if he can still find himself so totally in-love with her in this moment of all moments, then he will love her for the rest of his life.

This simple realization is both frightening and wonderful, and he's smiling again as his throat tightens with unshed tears.

He glances down the length of the couch, taking in the form hidden by a blanket, the bare foot that's dangling over the edge, toenails painted a deep, rich red (she may only get four hours of sleep every night that she's in D.C., but she still finds time to make sure her toes are always painted—that small little vanity amuses him). His eyes come back to her face, to her neck, where her left hand is tucked underneath her chin—she's still wearing her wedding ring, and that fills him with a measure of assurance. His gaze travels further up, to the curve of her shoulder that is peeking out from the blanket.

It is that little slip of skin that brings the warmth back to his own skin, reminding him exactly why he came downstairs—because he needs to be near her, to be with her. The palms of his hands remember the softness of her body and they ache with the need to feel it again, to rediscover its dips and curves and warmth.

Without any conscious thought, he reaches forward again, the tip of his index finger tracing the curve of her shoulder. She stirs again, and this time, green eyes open, slightly surprised to find themselves peering into blue ones.

"Hi," she says softly, her voice uncertain and quiet and timid and all the things that Karen Hayes is not.

"Hi," he returns, his breath catching with emotion, at the fear that he sees in her face, at the way her grip on the blanket tightens, as if she's trying to shield herself from him ( _don't hide from me, Karen, please don't ever take your light from me_ ).

He offers a small smile, "You said you wouldn't be home til two."

He watches the expression on her face change to one of confusion as her eyes flick to the clock on the wall, watches as he can literally see her realize her own mistake, as she looks back to him with a sheepish grin.

"Time zones," she states and he chuckles in agreement, leaning forward to kiss her forehead again.

"Time zones," he murmurs. She has closed her eyes at the simple contact of his mouth on her skin, and he knows that she has missed him as deeply as he has missed her. His lips ghost down the line of her nose, fully reconnecting with her mouth, and she shifts, raising her head more, pressing against his mouth as she hums in approval and relief.

"I went to bed early just so that I could be at the airport when you got in," he informs her whenever he finally drags his lips away from hers.

"You did?" The softness at the corner of her eyes touches his heart (because she had actually doubted that he would forgive her, that he would be there, that he wouldn't abandon her).

"Of course," he assures her huskily.

He doesn't ask why she's on the couch instead of upstairs in their bed, and she knows that it's because he already knows (or at least greatly suspects) the answer, and she's grateful that he hasn't mentioned it, because she's not ready for that discussion just yet.

He reads these things in her face, knows that she is still wary, that she still hasn't fully accepted the fact that he has forgiven her, and he knows that words will never reassure her the way that actions can. Also, he has waited as long as he could—now that she is awake, now that she is bright-eyed and moving and truly _Karen_ , he can't resist the urge to be as close to her as possible any longer. So he simply sits back on his heels, pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing is hap-hazardously across the room.

Her mouth dries at the sight of the body that she has missed for so many weeks now, and she doesn't stop her hand when it reaches for him, fingers lightly trailing through the blond and silver hairs on his chest (oh, goodness, she's missed him even more than she truly realized). His hand covers hers, his thumb lightly stroking the skin on her knuckles as he leans forward again, recapturing her mouth with his own.

He feels the tension seeping from her muscles, feels her body relaxing with the realization that all is truly not lost between them. Then he stands, pulling back the edge of the blanket so that he can slip between her and the back of the couch.

"You could just get on the edge," she teases as she shifts closer to the edge, giving him more space.

"You'd push me off," he returns, grinning when she chuckles at his joke (never refuting it, because they both know it's true). He sighs in relief at the feeling of the soft skin of her back pressing into his chest, at how his arm perfectly drapes over the curve of her waist, at the weight of her body settling against his, at the tangles in her hair that tickle his cheek, at the familiar warmth created by their two bodies being tucked under the same blanket again. His mouth moves to her neck as he takes in the familiar scent of her hair (though she also smells different, the odd scent of pressurized air from the plane—all planes and all hotels always smell exactly the same—and some new shampoo, but her perfume is still the same and her skin is still soft and warm).

He starts softly humming her theme song and she gives her first true laugh of the evening (in sheer relief, because if he's still singing John Mayer to her, then they really truly are going to be OK). She lifts her head so that his right arm can snake under her neck, becoming her pillow, and her legs, which were hanging off the edge of the couch, instinctively curl back inward, molding to the outline of his legs like the final clicking of a puzzle piece. Now she is truly home.

Still, the feeling of home reminds her of just how close she came to losing all of this, of how easily she put all of this on the line in the name of a greater good, a greater good which would not hold her with the same reverence and tenderness as the arms and hands of the man whose heart she can feel beating against her shoulder blade.

There was a time when she wouldn't have regretted her actions or her decision, a time when her moral compass was steadier, when her head ruled her heart, when her world was so easily black and white.

Bill Buchanan makes her world grey. And yet, all the other colors that he brings to her life makes the grey worthwhile. In fact, it makes the black and white completely inconsequential, because her heart doesn't care about those things, not the way her mind does, and now her heart is the one in control—the heart that follows Bill around like a puppy, the heart that wants only his love and affection, that beats for his safety and his happiness and his well-being above her own.

Today, she'd almost sacrificed that heart on the altar of public service. She isn't sure that she'll ever be able to forgive herself of such an atrocity.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she says quietly, and he knows that her apology extends to more than just a simple disturbance of slumber.

"I'd rather be awake if you're here," he reassures her, and she, too, understands that they are talking about deeper things. He kisses the top of her blonde head fiercely, pulling her tighter, and she shifts, looking over her shoulder so that she can see his face again.

"I fought for you," her voice is calm, quiet, but he can hear the tears dancing just underneath the surface. "I tried—"

"I know," he stops her, kissing her temple. "And we can talk about it in the morning. Right now, I just need to hold my wife."

It is the word _hold_ that settles into her chest with a reassuring weight, spreading warmth through every fiber of her body.

 _To have and to hold, from this day forth, for better, for worse, til death do us part._

He had promised her that just a year ago, his voice shaking with emotion, his hand warm and trembling as it held hers. Bill Buchanan is and will always be a man of his word. And as his wife snuggles deeper into his embrace, she wonders how she could have ever doubted this.


End file.
